Slytherins at War
by PsychoCellist
Summary: The Gryffindor method can work - bold, blustery, and loud. The upside to this "Magic is Might" business is that when it comes to protecting your Muggle-born friends, well, a pureblood can use subtler tricks.


Salazar Slytherin himself might have drooled over the Hawthorne bloodline. In a way, he did; unlike the other great pureblood families which were known to produce an errant Ranvenclaw or Gryffindor every decade or so, Hawthorne after Hawthorne had been Sorted into Slytherin House for as long as Slytherin House had stood.

And here Marcus was, about to knock on their door.

Well, _her_ door. The youngest Hawthorne, Miss Corina, who was currently seeking help. He wondered briefly if a bloodline like that was special somehow. Perhaps she could smell it on him. Perhaps he should run while he still could.

But to where?

 _No,_ he thought. _Better this_. He knocked.

She opened the door shortly, and looked him up and down. Her gaze was intense, like she were scrutinizing every part of him. He shifted his weight.

"Marcus?" It was more a statement than a question.

"At your service," he replied.

She gestured him into the manor, which seemed strangely silent. "I'm going to be frank with you, I don't have a staff to speak of. You would more or less be it. Still, I'm not as much to handle as the Hawthorne name would suggest." She looked back over her shoulder, judging his reaction, as she led him through the house. "Regardless, you come highly recommended, so I'm assuming you're familiar with this type of post?"

He nodded. Academics at Hogwarts had never been his strong suit, but household magic…he had taken to it immediately. Despite his Muggle upbringing, it seemed to him like a third hand, an natural part of his body. He had no aptitude for anything else, so if he wanted to stay in the Wizarding world, this was his in.

And he didn't so much mind. Something in his crowded brain enjoyed the simplicity of a command and its execution. There was a certain peace in doing what you were told.

She had been this entire time listing chores and duties, and he was half-listening. It was what he expected, and it boiled down to _do as you're told_. He was more than suited to that. Finally, she said, "Is this amenable to you?" He nodded again. He thought he saw the faintest smirk on her lips.

"Very well."

He quickly fell into a rhythm. Cooking, cleaning, demands on request. The former two were easy enough with magic, especially his particularly adept domestic charms. The latter was minimal, much moreso than he expected from a name of this stature. Miss Hawthorne did not require much except the occasional errand. As long as he was in a place where he could freely use his magic, he was happy.

Of course he had lied about his parentage. A Muggle-born did not get recommended into service of the Hawthornes lightly. But he had done his research. Found a pureblood line that got hazy near its end; found a Wizarding neighborhood where none of the family tree branches had settled. And he became Marcus Weatherly, as far as they knew. His blood status reputable if ambiguous, as simple as taking a name. Good enough for service, anyway.

This type of work was especially rare because of house-elves. He hadn't thought to question it until his very first time serving at a dinner party, for which Miss Hawthorne had blessedly hired temporary staff. His job was to keep glasses filled, plates cleared, messes obscured.

One of Miss Hawthorne's friends. a witch from a distinctly less reputable pureblood line, was several cups into the champagne. "Honestly, Corina," she slurred, " I don't see why you don't get a house elf."

Corina merely smirked. Another women, seated to her right, answered with a pedantic tone. "Don't you know, Missy? The Hawthornes haven't kept house-elves since medieval times. Something about…?" She trailed off.

Corina set down her glass gently. "My much-removed grandfather Ernest," she started. Her way of speaking seemed to draw eyes toward her, Marcus no exception. "He denounced the practice in the 1400s. He found house-elf magic untrustworthy, and besides, he believed that any wizard who couldn't employ _humans_ wasn't well worth the service." Her smirk had dissolved into a shy smile. "An impractical notion these days, naturally, but one doesn't so easily cast off the Hawthorne legacy." She laughed, as if her great-great-great-great grandfather's legacy were a delicate trinket she was obliged to keep in her house.

"In any case, it's no house-elves for the Hawthornes, only reputable staff from a decent pedigree." Her gaze flitted over Marcus, but it didn't seem cold. Almost as if they were sharing in some kind of joke. He was still clearing plates, doing quite a good job of being invisible.

Missy, to her credit, was able to hide a potential gaffe in some bubbly laughter. "Of course, naturally," she said, as if she had known of the Hawthorne tradition all this time. "It must be harder and harder _these days_ to find staff of decent blood." The sneer in her voice made it clear what "decent blood" meant, and Marcus was reassured yet again that his lie was well-placed. He thought he saw the smallest frown from Miss Hawthorne, but he couldn't be sure.

It was late one evening, well past when Marcus would usually have been dismissed for the night, when Corina got an urgent owl from some friend. Given the insistence of the pecking beast, Marcus thought it best to interrupt her.

He knocked timidly on the door, receiving no answer. A second knock left him nothing. The owl, it seemed, had been informed of the urgentness of its correspondence; it was pecking him quite incessantly. Finally, knowing she was not likely to be asleep, he merely opened the door.

Marcus found Miss Hawthorne crouched over a wireless, tapping it with her slender elegant want and muttering incoherent phrases. She switched off the radio quite suddenly as he entered, a flush filling her cheeks even as her voice remained cool as ever. "Yes?"

"My apologies, Miss Hawthorne," he said, and he felt his own flush creeping up his cheeks. "An urgent owl for you. It seems," he grimaced as another peck landed on his arm, "quite insistent."

"Very well." She took the letter from him and scanned it, expression unreadable. She pulled a quill from the desk drawer nearby and scribbled a short response on the same parchment on which the original letter was written. She folded it and returned it to the envelope, attaching it to the owl's leg and handing it back to Marcus. "That will be all."

He inclined his head and backed out of the room, his eyes fixed on the wireless she had been tapping as he entered.

They fell even more into a comfortable rhythm as time went on, and Marcus found his affection growing steadily by the day. Miss Hawthorne, though she ran in the haughtiest and cruelest of pureblood circles, was not unkind. In fact, her name boasted significant enough stature that she didn't seem inclined to add on; her friends were always falling over themselves for favor and praise, making snide comments about such-and-such blood traitor and so-and-so disgrace. She received it all with cool indifference. The others took this as a sign to work harder, to push more. Marcus rather suspected it was genuine uninterest.

Nevertheless, it was not his place, and he was comfortable with his place. He did his household magic, his scrubbing and mending and cooking and serving. He supposed to Miss Hawthorne's friends it seemed rather degrading, which was the point, but he took a certain pride in a meal especially well-executed. The look on her face when she was eating a nice roast duck, his particular specialty, was enough to tell him that this was his true talent and it was being appreciated in kind.

She was, astonishingly, low-maintenance enough that he did not want for help. He found he had rather a lot of free time, actually, which he spent perusing the Hawthorne library with relish. Every inch of the magical world, those parts that were so innate to his mistress, he studied with fervor. She either didn't notice or didn't care. He thought of his parents, still alive somewhere in Scotland, maybe wondering where he was. He wouldn't go back there. This was his world now.

It was late one afternoon, after long months of service, when she made a rather unusual request.

"Marcus," she said, not looking up from her _Daily Prophet_. "I'm wondering how well you are able to be discreet."

This piqued his interest from his place at the side of the table, ready to clear away the remnants of her tea. He was rather good at being invisible, though he hadn't tested it in any serious fashion. Something about her body language revealed an urgency not present in her tone. "Of course, Miss."

"This is a request that requires the _utmost_ discretion. If any of my friends should find out…" She directed her gaze at him seriously, real fear buried deep in her eyes.

He straightened, lowering his voice to more serious tone. "I can do it."

She nodded once. "I am in need of an edition of the _Quibbler_ ," she said matter-of-factly.

He nearly jumped, but kept his expression carefully neutral. The _Quibbler_ was not the sort of publication one found on the coffee tables of the great pureblood Houses. It was no wonder she didn't want anyone to catch her reading one.

He regained his composure. "Yes, Miss Hawthorne."

It was no easy thing. He had little contact outside of the Hawthorne manor, and that little he had was staff among other pureblood houses. He didn't dare ask any of them where to obtain an issue of the _Quibbler_ , seen as the unreliable ravings of an unfortunate madman. This led him to be rather…creative in Diagon Alley that morning.

Nevertheless, he got his hands on an issue and was confident that no one of consequence had seen him (he had become acutely aware of which wizards and witches were _of consequence_ in the service of Miss Hawthorne).

He headed home, _Quibbler_ in hand and concealed, certain that he had carried out all the due discretion that was required of him. He'd charmed the cover to look like a more reputable publication. He was about to Apparate home from the outskirts of Diagon Alley – Hawthorne manor was not connected to the Floo Network, another paranoid tradition started by dear old Ernest Hawthorne – when he found himself nearly bumping into a whole group of Ministry officials.

They were crowded around a storefront, and at the front of the group was a small and toadlike woman scrunching her nose at a clipboard in her hand. They were all murmuring, just barely inaudible. Marcus slowed his pace to glance over her shoulder at what she was furiously scribbling with her quill. The only words he could make out were the large title letters across the top, _Muggle-born Registration Commission_.

He nearly fell over, felt suddenly as if he was going to be sick. He shoved his contraband _Quibbler_ deeper into his robes and nearly sprinted out of Diagon Alley. He knew he oughtn't Apparate with his brain buzzing around as it was, but his only thought was to get as far away as possible. He turned on the spot and felt the familiar sensation of being constricted from all sides, then he was back on the front step of Hawthorne manor, wobbling on one foot but apparently intact.

She noticed immediately that something was off when he stumbled into the parlor, where she had thrown aside her _Daily Prophet_ and was gazing into the fireplace. She turned at the sound of his entrance and the smallest frown puckered at her face. Her voice was low and urgent. "Merlin's beard, Marcus, what on earth happened to you?"

He tried to steady his breathing, but he was aware he must look very pale indeed. He pulled the _Quibbler_ out of his pocket and waved over it once with his wand, returning it to its original form. His hands were trembling slightly has set it gently on the table beside her.

She frowned yet deeper. "This was too much to ask of you, Marcus. I apologize. You won't have to worry about any similar requests in the future. I don't know what you went through to get your hands on this, but I am deeply grateful, and deeply sorry."

He shook his head just slightly, feeling as if all his breath had dried up inside him and he could no longer push it in or out of his lungs. He cleared his throat quietly, licked his lips, and found a very small voice. "No, Miss, the errand itself was entirely uneventful." He shifted his weight. "It was…something else." Her brow was now well and truly furrowed and he felt his stomach drop. The "Muggle-born registration commission," whatever it was, should not frighten Marcus Weatherly, whose blood was reasonably pure. If she found out why he was afraid, he would be thrown out for sure. Or worse, reported to them.

One of her eyebrows raised, and she was clearly expecting more information. He had never been good at making up stories. What could he possibly invent that would justify this level of shakiness? The longer he waited, the more suspicious it would be.

Then, suddenly, she broke the tension entirely. Her face melted back into an expression of cool indifference, a face he mostly saw her use in public, and settled back into her chair. She picked up the _Quibbler_ and began leafing through it. "That will be all, Marcus." Her voice had returned to its usual tone, high and clear and faintly bored-sounding. "Do get some rest, you don't seem well."

He was taken aback, but only nodded and left the room hurriedly. He resolved to stay out of Diagon Alley as much as he was able.

"Your key, Miss Hawthorne?" The goblin was, characteristically, hard to read.

"Yes, of course. Marcus?" She reached a hand back casually and he handed it to her, then she to the goblin in question. He inspected it for a minute, then, seeming satisfied, gestured for her to follow. She did so without looking back at Marcus and he stayed a step behind.

He had not been in Gringotts many times, if he were being honest. There was not much in the way of savings for him and he didn't honestly have access to the Weatherly vault. From his few trips here he remembered the stomach-churning cart ride, but they were going much deeper than he had ever gone before. They went down and down the twisting track, arriving at one of the dragon-guarded vaults at the very heart of Gringotts.

To his surprise, when they arrived she did not bother to exit the cart. He stayed behind with her as the goblin exited and inserted her key in the lock, the twisting tumblers and magical locks slithering out of place.

He caught a glimpse of the inside as it opened, and he barely stopped his jaw falling to the floor. He'd never seen so many galleons in his life, let alone the other treasures littered about the cavern like so much trash. Still Miss Hawthorne sat, looking more bored than anything else. As the goblin turned back to her expectantly, she merely held her hand up, holding a folded bit of parchment. She held it there briefly until he took the hint, then snatched it from her hand. He opened it up and in her long, thin hand was written a short message:

 _Pretend this is a list of items; go and retrieve a random assortment from the vault._

He blinked at the note twice, then he bolted out of the cart and up into the glittering masses of gold. He stared around himself, and lest he seemed too confused, started grabbing for random handfuls of things. He ended up with a fair amount of galleons, something that looked like a large gemstone, and a couple of metalworked items sealed with the Hawthorne crest. The goblin kept a wary eye on him, flicking occasionally to his mistress who sat completely nonplussed in the cart. If he had hesitations, he did not share.

Then they were barreling back the way they came, him holding on to a random selection of Hawthone treasure, pretending it was a list with any significance. Then as soon as they had come they had apparated back home.

It went this way for the next few weeks. Errands Marcus used to do alone and quietly suddenly seemed to need Miss Hawthorne's personal attention, and he found himself strolling a half-step behind her through every notable Wizarding establishment in London. She even planned a night in the Leaky Cauldron, until she saw the state of the rooms.

At first it made him uncomfortable. Corina Hawthorne did not exactly wander the streets of Diagon Alley without turning a few heads, and he found himself suddenly the center of attention much of the time. He wasn't used to it, and he didn't care for it at first. But soon, he found himself almost enjoying the radius of prestige that surrounded her like a cloud. He had gone from invisible to half-invisible, half-renowned. It was an interesting feeling.

He had fallen easily into this new routine when, as usual, she found a new way to shock him. He was enchanting some dishes to wash themselves when he heard her calling for him and made his way to the parlor.

"Collect some of that gold we took from my vault, we're going out."

He was used to that by now. "How much exactly?"

She blinked twice, and Marcus realized she hadn't even thought about it. "50 galleons or so, as much as it takes to make an impressive-looking sack."

He nodded, wondering suddenly if she had any real idea what 50 galleons looked like, and returned to the foyer several minutes later with a velvet pouch, large Hawthorne crest on the side, nearly bursting with gold pieces. It looked rather cartoonish but she nodded approvingly. Before she stepped out the door, she turned back to look at him, something serious in her eyes.

"Marcus, for this errand in particular I'm going to have to ask that you trust me." It was a very peculiar thing to say, and he might have worried, but something about the words _trust me_ grounded him. He exhaled and felt suddenly light and comfortable; trusting Miss Hawthorne was something he knew how to do. He nodded.

They Apparated to a strange room Marcus had never seen before. To Marcus's shock, when they exited he found himself in the Ministry of Magic. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that the Hawthornes had their own secret way in, but he never quite got used to all the trappings of status. She took off confidently down a corridor and he followed, pouch of gold clinking as he went.

She entered one of the main lifts, him in tow. There were two wizards already inside, one muttering into a scroll of parchment and a very tall man who looked at her rather coldly. She ignored him as they entered.

The gate was about to close when a toadish woman entered on his heels. Marcus felt as if his tonsils were slithering down his throat; she was the same woman he had seen some time ago in Diagon Alley, scribbling over the _Muggle-born_ something or other.

To his surprise, Miss Hawthorne was greeting the woman warmly. "Dolores, my dear, how lovely."

Dolores, he supposed, seemed entirely too happy to have run into his mistress. "Corina! Yes, this is a pleasant surprise."

"I heard about the promotion, Dolores, what wonderful news. You must have your hands full."

Dolores seemed to smile a bit more brightly. "Too true, but all in service to the Ministry."

Miss Hawthorne laughed her tinkling laugh, though nothing in particular was funny. "Of course, my dear, you always were driven." Dolores's skin seemed to stretch ever tighter as her smile widened, leaving her looking rather like a caricature. "That would be the same reason I'm here, I supposed it time to make a donation. One must do one's part."

Dolores seemed to notice Marcus suddenly, and her eyes lingered on the Hawthorne crest before snapping back to the other witch. He imagined her licking her lips.

"You know…" Dolores started.

Corina returned a light, uninterested "Hmm?"

"My department, being rather new, could do with a bit of support, I'm afraid. I fear I'll work myself ragged at this rate, but if only we could hire more staff…"

Miss Hawthorne turned her whole body toward Dolores, leaning close as if they were sharing a secret, though speaking at the same volume. "My poor dear Dolores, you do too much."

Dolores attempted a demure nod, producing an effect rather like a marionette with an overeager puppeteer.

"Well, you know how these things go," Miss Hawthorne continued. "There are the usual funds, endowments, particular areas of interest…" she turned her gaze toward Marcus, who might as well have been a piece of furniture. Dolores looked at him as well. "However, I'm sure I can find a Galleon or two to lighten the load."

Dolores nodded again. Marcus imagined he could hear her teeth smacking together with the force of it.

The lift had come to a stop now, and at the sound of the cool voice Miss Hawthorne seemed to come back to herself. "Ah, this is us. Must be off, Dolores. Don't work too hard!" and she floated out of the lift without really waiting for Dolores to reply, Marcus at her heels feeling Dolores's eyes following them hungrily.

Marcus was still puzzling through what had just happened when she stopped quite suddenly. He hopped to the side to avoid her about-face and found her heading directly back toward the lift. In no time, they were back at the entrance from which they'd come and had Apparated back to Hawthorne manor.

She peeled off her cloak as they entered the foyer. "You can put that gold away, it was all for show. I will need an owl sent to Gringotts, however."

He didn't move. "Er…Miss Hawthorne?"

She made the same noise she'd made at Dolores in the lift, a soft and airy _hmm?_ , but this time she turned to face Marcus and looked genuinely interested.

"Who was that woman?"

"Dolores Umbridge," she replied instantly, and all the saccharine familiarity of the lift was gone. She said the word now as if she found it disgusting. "Newly promoted Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, and Head of the _Muggle-born Registration Commission_."

His throat was suddenly very dry.

He thought again of running away, Apparating off the front step and far away from London. Whatever the Muggle-born Registration Commission was, it couldn't be good for him. And worse, Miss Hawthorne was _funding_ it. But then again, if he ran, that would make him look especially suspicious. If they found him he wouldn't have a leg to stand on.

And then he heard Miss Hawthrone's voice from earlier, clear and firm in his head.

 _Trust me_.

"And how much shall I tell Gringotts to divert to the Muggle-born Registration Commission, Miss Hawthorne?"

An owl arrived at Hawthorne manor several weeks later, with an official Ministry seal on it. Marcus stared at it for quite a long time. It could be anything to do with the Ministry. There was no indication it was from the Muggle-born Registration Commission. He didn't need to be shaking as he was.

He thought about burning it, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He doubted it would help, if the letter really did mean trouble for him. _Trust me._ He steeled himself and delivered the letter to Miss Hawthorne.

He watched her open it, but her face betrayed no expression. What he did not expect was that when she had finished reading it, she tossed it casually into the fire.

Less than a month after that, the Ministry came to the door. Marcus was heading up the long foyer staircase when he heard a deafening chorus of popping sounds from the front step. Then the deep, booming sound of the large bronze knocker on the door. Marcus stood frozen. The Muggle-born Registration Commission had been ever at the back of his mind, and he did not dare to suspect these were normal visitors.

Then, quite unexpectedly, Miss Hawthorne entered the foyer. She turned to find Marcus on the stair, presumably looking quite white. "I'll answer it," she said, waving him away. He hid in the room at the top of the stairs and strained his ears against his own heartbeat.

There was the sound of Miss Hawthorne opening the door. "Gentlemen," she said casually. He had no idea how many people were outside.

A deep voice answered. "We're here for Marcus Weatherly, ma'am."

"I can speak for Marcus."

Someone in the indeterminate crowd coughed quietly. "Well, see, it's less a matter of speaking."

Things got very quiet after that. Marcus felt a tension rising in the air and could only imagine the look on his mistress's face.

A much higher-pitched voice broke the silence. "Of course, ma'am, what he means is…ma'am, that we're under orders to bring Mr. Weatherly in." Someone snorted when he said "Weatherly" this time, though it sounded half cut-off, as if the person who'd done it had been abruptly elbowed.

"Oh? Whatever for?" She sounded utterly bored, but his vision was becoming hazy.

"Several owls were sent here, ma'am." This was the first voice again, sounding significantly less sure.

Corina laughed now, as though she and the group were sharing some joke. "You can't mean the owls from the Muggle-born Registration Commission? I disposed of those, as they were surely sent in error."

Another silence, this time punctuated with the sound of some shuffling of feet.

"Ma'am, we were given clear instructions."

"Very well, let's have another set of clear instructions." The laughter utterly gone from her voice now. "Get your men off my property, and think very _very_ hard about whether you want me to tell my dear friend Dolores Umbridge how you all have wasted my time." The door shut.

There was a pause, a long pause. Marcus wondered whether they were going to break in, whether they could magic the door down. But after a long and agonizing minute, the chorus of pops returned and Marcus felt all his breath come back into him. He sat in his hiding place a moment longer, shutting his eyes tight as if waking from a particularly horrid dream.

He descended the staircase to find Corina Hawthorne looking nothing like she had sounded in the doorway. She was huddled against the front door, panting heavily and utterly pale.

They came for him, eventually, on one of the rare occasions he was out without her.

He was staring at a bottle of firewhiskey, trying to remember how much was left at home, when he suddenly found himself cornered. Several large men came to surround him. "You're needed at the Ministry, _Marcus_." The voice was gruff but calm, and before he knew what was happening there was a hand on his arm and he was being pulled through that constricting tube feeling, pressed on all sides, not knowing where he was going.

The courtroom, as it were, was on a lower floor of the Ministry, large and dank and cold. Dementors were stalking nearby where he was seated in a horrifying chair with chains dangling from its arms. The woman from the lift was there, though Marcus couldn't remember her name. She leered down at him from a high podium, something of a sneer on her squished-up face.

"Marcus Weatherly," she said in a high-pitched voice. "Or, _ahem_ , whatever your proper name is. You stand accused of impersonation and the stealing of magic." Marcus could feel a shiver go over him from the dementors crowding the room, and he found it difficult to think straight. He knew he had faked his blood status, but stealing magic? What did that mean? "From which wizard or witch did you steal that wand?"

"Steal?" He asked, lump forming in his throat. "I didn't – not the wand, the wand...my wand..." He trailed off as his mind became cloudy. Why was she questioning his wand instead of his family?

" _Your_ wand? I think not." Her tone was firm, but there was a sick smile on her face. "What witch or wizard would possibly bequeath their wand to a Muggle?"

He stammered. The cold clamminess from the dementor was beginning to make him feel sick. He was not good at making up stories, but he could usually keep his composure better than this. She was going to find out he had faked his identity for sure now, and he didn't know if that was grounds for Azkaban. It's not as if he'd stolen an entire life, just a last name, who cared about a last name...

"Answer the question, Mr. Whoever-you-are!" She spat. Before Marcus could even begin to collect his thoughts, a door on the side of the room burst open. A man was shouting "No, miss, you can't go in here..." And Miss Hawthorne pushed right past him and into the courtroom, emanating rage unlike any he'd ever seen.

"What is the _meaning_ of this, Dolores!"

 _Dolores_ , Marcus thought meekly. _That's her name._

The woman on the podium, Dolores, furrowed her brow. "This does not concern you, Corina, this is a matter for-"

"Doesn't _concern_ me?" Miss Hawthorne always had a way of commanding a room, but the quiet rage in her voice now was nothing short of heart-stopping. She stepped into the courtroom until she was right next to Marcus's chair. "Your department has seized a member of my household from the street, and it does not _concern_ me?"

Dolores's brow furrowed yet deeper. Her voice became low and she leaned over the bench. "I'm trying to protect you, Corina. You don't want everyone to know that you've associated – accidentally, I'm certain! - with this kind of filth."

"Protect me." Miss Hawthorne repeated. She was quiet for a long moment. "I see. You think you've found a Mudblood hiding right under my nose."

Marcus blinked. She had never said _Mudblood_ , not even when her friends were saying it. It sounded especially foul coming from her mouth, so ruthlessly casual as if she were naming a variety of houseplant.

Dolores leaned in yet further. "It isn't your fault, Corina, he has been lying to you."

"Of course," Miss Hawthorne said, demeanor entirely calm. Marcus wasn't sure what was happening between his growing nausea and his clouded mind. She was being convinced, he knew, and she was about to walk right out the same way she had walked in. This was the end of his life as he knew it. He should have gone back to Scotland.

As his thoughts twisted inward, he felt the tiniest brush on his right shoulder, and found Miss Hawthorne's hand had come to rest there casually. She squeezed it once, tightly; an affirmation.

"Well, Dolores, I don't know who your sources are, but you'd do well to sack them."

Dolores's sympathetic face turned into a sneer. "This man is not a Weatherly, Corina. There is no such person as Marcus Weatherly!"

"That's interesting!" A man's voice had emerged from the door into the courtroom. Dolores turned to face it, practically huffing. Marcus looked over and saw a tall, distinguished-looking man in dark purple robes standing with an equally tall and impressive woman in the doorway. "Did you hear that, dearest? I don't exist."

The woman answered, "A shame, really. I'm of no mind to be married to a figment of my imagination."

The two strode into the courtroom side by side, taking a place next to Corina and Marcus, still sitting in the chair. "Although, I think, Madam Undersecretary," the man continued. "You were referring to my cousin in the chair."

Dolores eyes widened. "That can't be," she said. "He is _Muggle-born_. We've traced his family back to -"

"Oh, silly me." The man laughed. "I forgot you'll probably be wanting this." He pulled a roll of parchment from his robes, flicked his wand, and it flew up toward Dolores. "I think you'll find all the papers are in order."

Dolores scanned the document with her beady little eyes. "This isn't possible, I tracked them down, I know _every_ branch of the Weatherly family tree!"

"It seems there's quite a lot you only think you know, Madam Undersecretary," said the woman – Mrs. Weatherly – smiling sweetly.

"I'll admit it does get a bit confusing on my side of the family," said the man. "We're not the most inventive family when it comes to naming. Not to mention the rogue Squib or two – alas, what can you do – so the bloodline isn't the easiest to trace. Nothing like our Miss Corina here, but we can't all be Hawthornes."

Miss Hawthorne smiled slightly, before looking up at Dolores, who was still sputtering at the document. "Is this _quite_ to your satisfaction? You'd said you'd tracked down every Weatherly, certainly you recognize these two as genuine?"

Dolores's hand gripped tighter into the parchment, crinkling it. "Yes," she seethed. "But how am I to verify they're telling the truth?"

Miss Hawthorne stepped away from Marcus now, in front of the three of them. "Let me get this straight, Dolores. Your allegation is that this Marcus Weatherly behind me is an imposter. That he's no Weatherly at all, but is in fact Muggle-born. You think that I failed to check his background, failed to notice he was a non-magical pretender. Or, perhaps, you think that I am knowingly harboring him, that I accepted him into my service despite hundreds of years of Hawthorne tradition. You think I have willingly been seen with him all over Diagon Alley, Gringotts – and, as you've witnessed yourself, the Ministry - knowing his blood status. You think, in fact, that I would do this while making a somewhat _sizable_ donation to the very department designed to locate his kind.

"So if I have this accusation correct, I wonder, Dolores – do you think I'm a blood traitor, or merely stupid?"

Dolores stared at her, eyes wide, mouth gaping slightly open. She sputtered for a bit, and seemed near words when Miss Hawthorne spoke again.

"I'll expect not to be hearing from you or your department again, Dolores," Miss Hawthorne said after a moment. She turned to Marcus and, in her usual bored tone, said, "Let's go home, shall we?"

All four of them arrived back on the step to Hawthorne manor, and Marcus ambled inside still in a state of shock. The sickness and the cold from the dementor were wearing off, but the confusion was not. Once they were safely inside, Miss Hawthorne released a long held-in breath. Marcus merely stared at them.

Miss Hawthorne seemed to catch the look on his face. "Marcus, this is Marcus and Yvaine Weatherly."

The man from the courtroom stuck out his hand and started shaking Marcus's vigorously. "How do you do? Always nice to get reacquainted with old family." He winked, his wife chuckling to herself.

Marcus blinked at him, still confused.

Miss Hawthorne smiled, not at all like her cold expression in the courtroom. "If you two will excuse me," she said, turning to the Weatherlys. "I think Marcus and I may have some things to discuss."

She kissed both of them on the cheek, saying, "Thank you again. I owe you one."

Yvaine beamed at her. "Not even close, Corina. It would take us a lifetime to even break even with you."

The two stepped out the door, Marcus giving Marcus one last jovial wave, and then there was a _pop_ and they'd disappeared.

Miss Hawthorne turned silently and headed for the drawing room, and Marcus could not think of anything to do but follow. She sat in her favorite armchair, then nodded her head toward a decanter of wine sitting on an end table. Marcus started, but poured a glass and handed it to her. As she took it, she said. "You look like you could use one, too. And sit down." So he poured himself a glass and perched opposite her on the edge of a chaise lounge, still stiff. He took a tentative sip.

She merely sat in silence, sitting her wine and sinking deep into the chair as if exhausted. He waited a long time for her to begin discussion she had promised, but when none came, he finally said, "How long have you known?"

She met his eyes, amused. "I knew you weren't a Weatherly from the moment you appeared at my door."

Marcus's heart sank, and she regarded him. "No fault of yours, I assure you. Your demeanor is perfect and your cover is just murky enough to be believable - and hard to disprove at that. It's not your fault that I know every Weatherly there ever was. Even the disowned ones." She took a sip. "Old family friends from my pre-Hogwarts days."

He let his fingers slacken slightly on his wine glass, finding they'd been white from gripping. "Then why – why would you hire me?"

She laughed bitterly. "I don't care about your blood status, Marcus. These people I've spent my entire life around, they think their blood status makes them something. They need to feel that they're impenetrably important, intrinsically _better_ , or they can't bear to sleep at night. But believe me, I am from a family of about as much blood status as you can get, and among them are some of the stupidest, cruelest, and most cowardly people I can imagine." She took another sip. "Besides, you came highly recommended, and I've yet to be disappointed."

He felt a twinge of pride at that last statement.

"I do have one question," she said, and Marcus looked at her. "Why did you choose Marcus to impersonate?"

"I didn't," Marcus said. "I wasn't meaning to impersonate anyone specific. Marcus is my given name."

She laughed then, a real rollicking laugh quite unlike the delicate giggles he usually heard at parties. It was so infectious that he found himself laughing too, letting the relief of being home and the wine take the last edge out of the lingering dementor effects.

When she finally regained her normal breathing, she drained her wine glass and stood up abruptly, and he instinctively rose when she did.

"Well," she said. "Now that that's settled, it's back to work."

He cocked his head. "Work, Miss Hawthorne?"

She nodded. "I don't know about you, but I think the _Muggle-born Registration Commission_ has gone on quite long enough."

She marched out of the room and Marcus was left, as always, to follow.


End file.
